Looking Forward by IdleLeaves
Apr. 1st, 2018 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Prompt & Category: Two daily prompts - 'sailing west' and 'create a fanwork with rainy or stormy weather'.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Gen
Rating: All Ages
Warnings: None
Characters: Erestor, Glorfindel
Summary: Fourth Age, Bree. On a journey to Mithlond with Glorfindel, Erestor's reservations about their errand come to light.
* * *
The East Road to Mithlond is quiet, this autumn, and not well-trodden. Glorfindel and Erestor meet no other Elves as they travel, and hear no singing - even far off - at night as they rest under trees with leaves of scarlet and gold. Only the soft sounds of wildlife all around them break the calm silence that has settled over the woods.
There are storm-clouds gathering behind them, this afternoon, and the air smells of rain. Glorfindel turns toward them, for a moment, and catches, instead, a half-second flash of dark hair and grey cloak disappearing into the trees.
"Still some Silvans this side of the mountains, I see," he says. It's not quite a surprise, though most of those who remain east of the sea - save for those in Imladris and Mithlond - have joined the Golden Wood's former folk in East Lórien.
"I should expect so," says Erestor, sounding as distracted as he'd been since they'd moved beyond the borders of the valley. Though he'd agreed to the errand - rather reluctantly, Glorfindel had thought - he'd grown quiet as the road itself as they continued along. "Do you think we can make it to Bree before it pours?" It's the most he's said in hours.
"Let's pick up the pace," Glorfindel says, "and see."
The rain holds off until evening, but the gates of Bree are not even on the horizon when the first drops begin to fall; the wind picks up soon afterward, spattering their faces with water, and both are soaked to the skin by the time they reach the inn. Erestor offers to stable their horses while Glorfindel secures them a room for the night.
The room is small but comfortable - two beds, a fireplace, and a pair of chairs with a small table set between the windows. Glorfindel leaves his mud-encrusted boots at the door and hangs his wet cloak beside the fire with Erestor's. He checks his saddlebags, then, to make sure that the box of scrolls for Mithlond is undamaged. A strange errand for a seneschal, perhaps, but Glorfindel had chosen to go rather than send a subordinate.
He and Erestor strip down and change into dry clothing from their packs, then, ignoring the chairs in the corner, sit cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, blankets around their shoulders. Erestor pulls a comb through his hair to work out the tangles; Glorfindel twists his wet braids into a knot at the back of his neck, and adjusts his blanket so it covers him from shoulders to knees.
"I thought we could talk," Glorfindel says, later, once the fire has warmed them both.
"About what?" Erestor sets his comb aside.
"About whatever has you so preoccupied. Or - withdrawn, almost, if that wouldn't be too far out of character." Glorfindel can sense Erestor's hesitation, and waits a moment before continuing. "Keep it to yourself, if you like - I won't push. But I do worry."
"Don't," says Erestor, mildly, and folds his hands together in his lap. "It's not - no. I'm just..." and he trails off with a shake of his head.
Glorfindel waits for Erestor to speak again; it's not like him to have such trouble with words. Instead, Erestor leaves his place by the fire to stand in front of the window. Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets; thunder rumbles in the distance. "I'm not looking forward to it," he says, so softly that Glorfindel has to strain to hear him.
"To Mithlond? You used to love it."
"I still do," Erestor says. "But there are other things to consider, now."
"Like what?" Glorfindel asks.
Erestor rests his hands on the windowsill with a soft sigh. "The sea."
"Oh," says Glorfindel, and then again: "Oh." The logs shift in the fireplace, sending up sparks.
"I'm tired, Fin," Erestor says, and perhaps for the first time Glorfindel can hear it in his voice; it has nothing to do with the late hour, nor the length of their travels. Erestor returns to Glorfindel's side, next to the fire. "You're observant. You must have noticed."
"I did, yes." He'd noticed how Erestor had started, some time ago, to delegate much more than before, to become captain of the guard much more in theory than in practice. It had become rare to see him at the head of a patrol rather than one of his subordinates. "I'd not realised, though, that it was so bad as that."
Erestor is quiet for a long time. The clock in the hall outside their room ticks away the minutes. "No matter how much has changed - not just for me, but for all of us - there's still much to preserve, to protect. Coming within reach of the sea, right now, might end up pushing me to a decision I'm not sure I'm ready to make."
"If it's your time, it's your time," Glorfindel says, gently.
"I suppose I'll find out, won't I," Erestor says, but his expression softens and he manages a smile, one that Glorfindel finds himself returning.
The rain starts to taper off as the fire continues to burn down. Glorfindel shifts forward to add another log. "Might be time to get some rest," he says, and Erestor agrees with a wordless nod. Glorfindel stands and turns to seek his bed; the other bed creaks softly, a moment later, as Erestor does the same. They fall asleep to the crackling of fire, and the patter of rain.
* * *
Also on AO3 here.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Gen
Rating: All Ages
Warnings: None
Characters: Erestor, Glorfindel
Summary: Fourth Age, Bree. On a journey to Mithlond with Glorfindel, Erestor's reservations about their errand come to light.
* * *
The East Road to Mithlond is quiet, this autumn, and not well-trodden. Glorfindel and Erestor meet no other Elves as they travel, and hear no singing - even far off - at night as they rest under trees with leaves of scarlet and gold. Only the soft sounds of wildlife all around them break the calm silence that has settled over the woods.
There are storm-clouds gathering behind them, this afternoon, and the air smells of rain. Glorfindel turns toward them, for a moment, and catches, instead, a half-second flash of dark hair and grey cloak disappearing into the trees.
"Still some Silvans this side of the mountains, I see," he says. It's not quite a surprise, though most of those who remain east of the sea - save for those in Imladris and Mithlond - have joined the Golden Wood's former folk in East Lórien.
"I should expect so," says Erestor, sounding as distracted as he'd been since they'd moved beyond the borders of the valley. Though he'd agreed to the errand - rather reluctantly, Glorfindel had thought - he'd grown quiet as the road itself as they continued along. "Do you think we can make it to Bree before it pours?" It's the most he's said in hours.
"Let's pick up the pace," Glorfindel says, "and see."
The rain holds off until evening, but the gates of Bree are not even on the horizon when the first drops begin to fall; the wind picks up soon afterward, spattering their faces with water, and both are soaked to the skin by the time they reach the inn. Erestor offers to stable their horses while Glorfindel secures them a room for the night.
The room is small but comfortable - two beds, a fireplace, and a pair of chairs with a small table set between the windows. Glorfindel leaves his mud-encrusted boots at the door and hangs his wet cloak beside the fire with Erestor's. He checks his saddlebags, then, to make sure that the box of scrolls for Mithlond is undamaged. A strange errand for a seneschal, perhaps, but Glorfindel had chosen to go rather than send a subordinate.
He and Erestor strip down and change into dry clothing from their packs, then, ignoring the chairs in the corner, sit cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, blankets around their shoulders. Erestor pulls a comb through his hair to work out the tangles; Glorfindel twists his wet braids into a knot at the back of his neck, and adjusts his blanket so it covers him from shoulders to knees.
"I thought we could talk," Glorfindel says, later, once the fire has warmed them both.
"About what?" Erestor sets his comb aside.
"About whatever has you so preoccupied. Or - withdrawn, almost, if that wouldn't be too far out of character." Glorfindel can sense Erestor's hesitation, and waits a moment before continuing. "Keep it to yourself, if you like - I won't push. But I do worry."
"Don't," says Erestor, mildly, and folds his hands together in his lap. "It's not - no. I'm just..." and he trails off with a shake of his head.
Glorfindel waits for Erestor to speak again; it's not like him to have such trouble with words. Instead, Erestor leaves his place by the fire to stand in front of the window. Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets; thunder rumbles in the distance. "I'm not looking forward to it," he says, so softly that Glorfindel has to strain to hear him.
"To Mithlond? You used to love it."
"I still do," Erestor says. "But there are other things to consider, now."
"Like what?" Glorfindel asks.
Erestor rests his hands on the windowsill with a soft sigh. "The sea."
"Oh," says Glorfindel, and then again: "Oh." The logs shift in the fireplace, sending up sparks.
"I'm tired, Fin," Erestor says, and perhaps for the first time Glorfindel can hear it in his voice; it has nothing to do with the late hour, nor the length of their travels. Erestor returns to Glorfindel's side, next to the fire. "You're observant. You must have noticed."
"I did, yes." He'd noticed how Erestor had started, some time ago, to delegate much more than before, to become captain of the guard much more in theory than in practice. It had become rare to see him at the head of a patrol rather than one of his subordinates. "I'd not realised, though, that it was so bad as that."
Erestor is quiet for a long time. The clock in the hall outside their room ticks away the minutes. "No matter how much has changed - not just for me, but for all of us - there's still much to preserve, to protect. Coming within reach of the sea, right now, might end up pushing me to a decision I'm not sure I'm ready to make."
"If it's your time, it's your time," Glorfindel says, gently.
"I suppose I'll find out, won't I," Erestor says, but his expression softens and he manages a smile, one that Glorfindel finds himself returning.
The rain starts to taper off as the fire continues to burn down. Glorfindel shifts forward to add another log. "Might be time to get some rest," he says, and Erestor agrees with a wordless nod. Glorfindel stands and turns to seek his bed; the other bed creaks softly, a moment later, as Erestor does the same. They fall asleep to the crackling of fire, and the patter of rain.
* * *
Also on AO3 here.
